Here, again, she selected an elderly assistant.
The conversation ran much on the same lines, to an accompaniment of summer vests. This time, the assistant responded promptly.
“That would be Mrs. Findeyson’s house.” “Yes — yes. Though the friends I knew had it furnished. A Major Halliday and his wife and a baby girl.” “Oh yes, madam. They had it for about a year, I think.” “Yes. He was home from India. They had a very good cook — she gave me a wonderful recipe for baked apple pudding — and also, I think, for gingerbread. I often wonder what became of her.'” “I expect you mean Edith Pagett, madam. She’s still in Dillmouth. She’s in service now — at Windrush Lodge.” “Then there were some other people — the Fanes. A lawyer, I think he was!” “Old Mr. Fane died some years ago — young Mr. Fane, Mr. Walter Fane, lives with his mother. Mr. Walter Fane never married. He’s the senior partner now.” “Indeed? I had an idea Mr. Walter Fane had gone out to India—tea-planting or something.” “I believe he did, madam. As a young man. But he came home and went into the firm after about a year or two. They do all the best business round here—they’re very highly thought of. A very nice quiet gentleman, Mr. Walter Fane. Everybody likes him.” “Why, of course,” exclaimed Miss Marple. “He was engaged to Miss Kennedy, wasn’t he? And then she broke it off and married Major Halliday.” “That’s right, madam. She went out to India to marry Mr. Fane, but it seems as she changed her mind and married the other gentleman instead.” A faintly disapproving note had entered the assistant’s voice.
Miss Marple leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“I was always so sorry for poor Major Halliday (I knew his mother) and his little girl. I understand his second wife left him.
Ran away with someone. A rather nighty type, I’m afraid.” “Regular flibbertigibbet, she was. And her brother the doctor, such a nice man.
Did my rheumatic knee a world of good.” “Whom did she run away with? I never heard.” “That I couldn’t tell you, madam. Some said it was one of the summer visitors.
But I know Major Halliday was quite broken up. He left the place and I believe his health gave way. Your change, madam.” Miss Marple accepted her change and her parcel.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I wonder if — Edith Pagett, did you say — still has that nice recipe for gingerbread? I lost it—or rather my careless maid lost it — and I’m so fond of good gingerbread.” “I expect so, madam. As a matter of fact her sister lives next door here, married to Air. Mountford, the confectioner. Edith usually comes there on her days out and I’m sure Mrs. Mountford would give her a message.” “That’s a very good idea. Thank you so much for all the trouble you’ve taken.” “A pleasure, madam, I assure you.” Miss Marple went out into the street. “A nice old-fashioned firm,” she said to herself. “And those vests are really very nice, so it isn’t as though I had wasted any money.” She glanced at the pale blue enamel watch that she wore pinned to one side of her dress. “Just five minutes to go before meeting those two young things at the Ginger Cat. I hope they didn’t find things too upsetting at the Sanatorium.” II Giles and Gwenda sat together at a corner table at the Ginger Cat. The little black notebook lay on the table between them.
Miss Marple came in from the street and joined them.
“What will you have. Miss Marple?
Coffee?” “Yes, thank you — no, not cakes, just a scone and butter.” Giles gave the order, and Gwenda pushed the little black book across to Miss Marple.
“First you must read that,” she said, “and then we can talk. It’s what my father — what he wrote himself when he was at the nursing home. Oh, but first of all, just tell Miss Marple exactly what Dr. Penrose said, Giles.” Giles did so. Then Miss Marple opened the little black book and the waitress brought three cups of weak coffee, and a scone and butter, and a plate of cakes.